


The Faithless

by GayNidoKing



Series: ZevWarden Week 2020 [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blind Character, Pre-Relationship, Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayNidoKing/pseuds/GayNidoKing
Summary: Early in their journey, Zevran and Surana discuss faith.
Series: ZevWarden Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813810
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: ZevWarden Week 2020





	The Faithless

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ZevWarden Week, Day 3: Oh Maker, Faith. 
> 
> I am not super happy with this, but...it's what I have. Hopefully tomorrow is a bit easier!

The knights passed around the “blessed” amulets, clutching them like a drowning man clung to land. Alistair talked to their leader, the diplomat as always to Laz’s ruthless negotiation.

Zevran and Surana stood a little further down the hill. Although she’d done the legwork of actually retrieving the revered mother’s “blessing” for the amulets, she’d allowed Alistair to be the one to actually deliver them. Given how... _ ruthlessly _ her negotiations with the holy woman had been, they had all agreed it was a good idea.

“You bartered with that woman like a fiend,” he commented appreciatively. “I don’t think I’ve seen such confident, respectful blasphemy.”

She actually laughed.

She stood very close to him. She’d called on him when they’d entered the village and in that innocently demanding tone that he act as her guide while they were in the Redcliffe. An attempt, he assumed, to keep him close and to observe him. At least half of it was working. They were  _ quite _ close. She’d kept her arm tucked in his from the moment they left camp. Her blindness necessitated she had someone near her on the uneven and rocky road, but he knew for a fact he wasn’t her first choice. He wasn’t going to complain. Even if it was just to keep an eye on him, he would never complain about being so close to such a breathtaking creature.

“It wasn’t that hard,” she said, drumming her fingers on his elbow thoughtfully. “Lies like that are easy to feed to the faithful. They already believe the big ones...the little ones are so much easier.”

He wasn’t surprised by how flippantly she said it. He didn’t know Surana very well, but he knew she was not a sentimental woman, and she had a mind for practicality. He had no doubt she saw the knights’ faith in the same way she saw his arm in hers: a means to her end.

“Given that you spoke of their faith like a tool, I take it you don’t believe?” He was actually interested to hear her answer. So far, she had defied nearly everything he had expected from her. He had a feeling that, in this, he would not be surprised.

“Believe in what? The Maker?” She was distracted as she answered him, most of her attention on the soldiers up the hill. She was ensuring her investment was being returned. How practical. She laughed again, once again without mirth. “What are you asking that for?”

She didn’t sound defensive or accusatory, just genuinely curious. Not a sore subject, then, just one that wasn’t often brought up. Which made sense. Most people probably assumed she was devout. Many mages were.

“Curiosity,” he answered honestly. “Is it a crime to want to know you better?” He was teasing. She had asked him all kinds of probing questions in the few months since he’d joined their merry little group, many of which he was happy to answer with casual honesty.

“No.” She pulled her staff closer to her shoulder, and tapped her finger on it thoughtfully. “Does it matter?”

Now there was a question. He’d never asked anyone in the Crows what they believed. It hadn’t ever made a difference to him what his leaders believed, so long as they were keeping his blades sharp. But then again, one’s faith dictated one’s morals. Were she Andrastian (which he was almost positive she wasn’t), he would know what to expect. If she wasn’t...well...one more mystery.

“Well, if you must know, I don’t care for the Maker.”

No surprises there.

To his surprise, she continued, offering more information than he needed. “I despise the Chantry.” she continued. “Andraste was a wonderful woman, I’m sure, but she certainly didn’t make my life any easier.” It was an easy answer for her, the words practiced and detached.

“How interesting. Were you not raised with a Chantry a stone’s throw away?”

She hadn’t taken him in to storm the Circle Tower, but he’d entered afterwards and seen the religious imagery plastered on every surface. Obviously she couldn’t see them, but he doubted the religious order of holy knights kept quiet about their fanaticism.

She shook her head. “The Chant has nothing for me.” She tilted her face towards him. “What about you?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised she turned the question around on him, but he was, somehow. Perhaps because he didn’t have an easy answer.

“Oh, I…” He found himself hesitating as he answered. What  _ about _ him? “I don’t call His name in battle the way your charming bard friend does, but I’m not above a little groveling when the tides turn against me.” He nudged her in a play at teasing. “You’re quite familiar with that, aren’t you?”

She snorted. “You are hardly the groveling sort, Zevran.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. He almost dropped his lighthearted tone to match hers. “But even I seek comfort, in those moments of uncertainty. Don’t we all?”

That was the simplest way to put it, really. He’d never been a devout man. He’d never had the time. Chantries themselves were pretty spectacles, all stained glass and polished stone, but he didn’t much care for the thought of praying to an absentee father figure in the sky. He had a reverence for Andraste he couldn’t deny, though the fable of being freed from the shackles of slavery appealed to him. And there was also that entrancing pull towards the gods of his mother. The Dalish gods he knew only from books and from a brief stay with a Dalish clan in the heart of Antiva. He’d never pursued either faith, not in earnest. When he was at his darkest, he called out to whatever he thought might answer. So far, nothing had.

He could sympathize, he supposed, with her rather bleak view of faith.

“I do find some comfort in some of the teachings,” he admitted. “I’m not sure what comforts  _ those _ blessings would have given me,” he gestured to the amulets the knights were appraising, realizing belatedly that she couldn’t see the gesture, “but some of the stories are rather touching, don’t you think?”

“I don’t, actually.” She was blunt, as always. “Those stories were used as justification for nearly every tragedy in my life. The Chantry, the Maker...none of that is for me.” She looked at him and then looked away, so quickly he knew she didn’t want him to see. “Besides,” she admitted softly, “I already had my ways, before the Circle.”

He tried to keep himself from perking up at that statement. She had mentioned her past only a handful of times, even as he had spilled his life to her. He knew next to nothing about her time in the Circle, and absolutely nothing about her life before it. All he knew was she had once upon a time lived in Antiva, and had lived there long enough that even after over a decade in Ferelden she still had that distinctive accent.

“Your ways?” he pressed curiously.

“My ways,” she repeated.

He knew a dead end when he saw one. With a sigh, he turned his attention back. The knights were done, and Alistair was coming back their way.

“I suppose with that out of the way, there is nothing more to do than wait for those, hm...monsters from the castle?”

“Our preparations are complete,” she agreed. “With the knights we should be able to defend the town for one more night until we can get to the source of this evil.”

Their talk turned immediately to strategy and war. They descended back into the town square to rally their forces for the final fight.

In the quiet moments before the battle, he saw Surana raise her face towards the sky, one finger raised in a strange ritual. The knights clutched their amulets, crying out readily for the protection of their Maker. And Zevran...Zevran gripped his daggers tightly and he simply hoped for the best.


End file.
